


rain

by museaway



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (but talk of future switching), Alpha Dean, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bottom Castiel, Dean Smith ‘verse, Golf, M/M, Omega Castiel, Panty Kink, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Scent bonds, Sharing Clothes, Top Dean, deancastropefest, disgusting love confessions, emotional rimming, secluded together somewhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:16:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7925554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Smith has experienced passing attraction to other alphas before, but never dreamed he’d act on it until he falls in love with his best friend. Even though he’s certain that Castiel has no interest in him beyond friendship, Dean can’t bring himself to move on. But when Castiel is outraged by a derogatory comment at work, he shows up uninvited at Dean’s lakeside cabin to demand his help, and several truths come out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While there's no on-page mpreg, this universe presumes that male omegas are capable of bearing children; that whether one is alpha, beta, or omega is apparent at birth and easily confirmed through ultrasound; and that male omegas (and female alphas) have two fully functioning reproductive systems. Nothing explicit, but if that’s gonna squick you, please exit now. 
> 
> Brief references to past relationships between Dean/other and Cas/other, but nothing occurs on page. 
> 
> Beta read by K.A. Graves, frostshipsit, Knitting Nerd (who caught that I’d put “Winchester” several places), and Lehlared. Thanks to jojodacrow for her encouragement and for being a stellar co-mod!
> 
> Written for the Dean/Cas Tropefest 2016. Art by MyColour

He should’ve known when he put on the yellow tie that today would be a catastrophe.

Historically, the red tie meant Dean’s marketing presentation would net unequivocal approval from Mr. Adler. It took confidence to wear that color. Chutzpah. Balls. The boardroom equivalent of baring teeth.

The blue tie had a less successful track record. Blue erred on the side of neutrality, a touch beta, though still a strong color, with the benefit of being less intimidating.

But the yellow tie was his favorite: a bright, buttery silk with skinny diagonal gray stripes. It really popped against his suspenders. He’d bought it because it reminded him of the lemon sundress mom wore to Easter service. He’d seen Zachariah in similar ties over the years; yellow, after all, was just a color. But when Dean tightened it around his neck, something in his manner and outlook changed. He felt softer, vulnerable—neither a quality for the boardroom _or_ an alpha. He’d put it on and fantasize about being the one held down, about being spread apart and licked open.

He didn’t wear the yellow tie home for Christmas.

He did, however, tend to wear it the Friday before a weekend escape to his cabin. Today was Thursday, but Dean had forgotten his striped shirt at the dry cleaners and the yellow tie looked smart with the starched blue shirt he wore in its stead. And since he had a longstanding vacation day on the books tomorrow, today was officially the end of the week. His schedule was free apart from the meeting with Zachariah, and he’d keep his jacket on while they spoke. It was unlikely he’d have to speak with anyone else face to face, so tradition won out.

Dean had a working lunch penciled in with Castiel to go over the marketing schedule in advance, but Castiel was laid back—easily the most relaxed employee at Sandover when it came to the dress code. He rarely bothered with a tie, and there was a fifty-percent chance that his top button would be undone a minute past noon. Even if they weren’t especially close, he wouldn’t care what Dean had on.

Despite his rugged, just-rolled-out-of-bed appearance that nodded toward apathy, Castiel Novak was the strongest and most dedicated member of the marketing team. Apart from minor dress code violations (the “no tunics” rule had been written in for Castiel specifically) and the time Dean had caught him smoking pot on the roof during the company holiday party, Castiel was a model employee. Dean’s second in command. He was never in trouble with human resources, and Dean never heard a complaint about him from another staff member. Everyone seemed to genuinely like having Castiel around, and he was an unparalleled salesman. The clients took to him effortlessly. And unlike Dean, who ran dress rehearsals for meetings in the bathroom mirror, Castiel never had to force conversation. Dean was awed by his confidence, if not a little jealous.

 

* * *

 

The first time they met, Castiel had held Dean’s hand between his when they shook, which was odd, certainly; intimidating but not uncomfortable.

“Dean,” he said through a warm smile. “I’m Castiel.”

It came out easily, as though holding hands within seconds of meeting your new boss was commonplace. Castiel wasn’t wearing a suit jacket, just a pale blue shirt which hung open at the throat. The color made Dean take notice of his eyes. Castiel was either getting over something or he’d had a rough night. But even bloodshot, they were an extraordinary shade of blue, like a stroke from _The Starry Night_.

Breathless, Dean let Castiel hold onto his hand longer than was professional. Something about him rooted Dean in place. Castiel’s gaze was peacefully commanding, and though his solid build and toothy grin nodded toward alpha genes, he smelled faintly of the outdoors, of petrichor, rather than the musky undertone of most alphas. A beta, feasibly, though he didn’t carry himself like one. It was fairly common for alphas to wear blockers as a courtesy, especially in a professional setting. Dean didn’t think any more of it.

Alpha or not, Castiel’s scent reeled him in, though Dean didn’t acknowledge his dependence on it until the first time Castiel left for vacation. He belonged to a cruise club and took a full week off every six months like clockwork. “Necessary for perspective,” he claimed, and the cruise company apparently didn’t have a rollover policy.

The first day Castiel was gone, the eighteenth floor reeked of sour milk. The stench threw Dean’s mood, twisting him into such an agitated state that by Tuesday afternoon, he almost took off his assistant’s head. He ordered a thorough scrub-down of the kitchen to eliminate the possibility of rotting food, but the smell persisted. Another alpha must have gone into rut. It was the only plausible explanation; they were biologically wired to avoid each other during that time, so Dean would naturally be agitated by their scent. He blamed the housekeeping department, accusing them of changing cleaning solutions, but housekeeping assured him they’d used the same scent-eliminating detergents since Dean began at Sandover eleven years ago, and none of the department’s alphas were out.

In the end, Dean marked it down to stress. With Castiel gone, he’d borne the brunt of Zachariah's frequent mood swings by himself. Things would be better on Monday. He nursed an upset stomach that weekend, convinced he’d developed an ulcer, or possibly stomach cancer.

A supernal freshness permeated the hallway the day of Castiel’s return. Someone must’ve left a window open over the weekend, because the noxious stench was gone. Dean glimpsed Castiel’s messy hair as he ducked into the break room and followed him without a thought, grinning at the sight of Castiel slumped against the counter, gulping water like it was the only thing keeping him upright. For someone just returned from a week-long cruise, Castiel looked haggard. The bags under his eyes were puffier than usual and he was a couple pounds thinner, but dad and Jo had gotten queasy on that family Mediterranean cruise a few years back. The seas must’ve been rough.

“How was your trip?” Dean asked, warmed by Castiel’s blissful smile, the weight of his hand on Dean’s shoulder as he went past.

“Hot.”

Dean had the sense of being momentarily in a forest clearing during a storm, the drum of rain on the canopy overhead. He remained in place for several minutes, breathing in the scent Castiel had left behind. He’d never felt so immediately calm in someone’s presence before, not even his mother’s, and didn’t know what to make of it. Dean had experimented in college and messed around with a few betas, but he’d never dated one, and the only alpha he’d ever kissed had been a woman, Pamela, during a billiards game, hazy from the sickly sweet green punch.

Is that what this was? Attraction? Did he want to kiss Castiel? Yes, he did. He wanted to learn every part of him with his mouth.

He sat on that information for a week before deciding how to proceed. Maybe being around each other was enough to take the edge off, so he suggested they hang out to watch the game—any game, since Dean didn’t actually follow professional sports. The following evening, three months after they met, Castiel dropped by Dean’s apartment with a six-pack of Burning River ale and weed. He got stoned and picked through Dean’s leftovers.

The weed didn’t receive a second invitation, but Dean was delighted when Castiel asked him to swim laps at his fitness club on Saturday. They bullshitted in the hot tub and in the sauna after, talking portfolios and swapping college stories. Dean tried not to drool over Castiel’s thighs, thick from running and as tanned as his face and hands. Castiel’s scent grew stronger when he worked out, and it took all of Dean’s self control not to crowd him against the wooden wall and lick the hollow of his throat.

He spent a confused Sunday masturbating to omega porn.

Now, three years since they met, Dean’s strange addiction to Castiel’s scent persisted. No one else at Sandover seemed to be affected by it, but when his stress levels soared, Dean snuck elicit drags off Castiel’s shoulder in the elevator, the break room, in the steam room at the gym. Evenings when Castiel had sat on Dean’s couch for hours watching baseball, Dean buried his guilty face in the sofa to drink in what remained of him once he’d gone.

But Castiel never demonstrated interest in Dean beyond a mildly flirtatious friendship. They avoided the topic of relationships. As far as Dean knew, Castiel didn’t date. He was a majority stockholder in personal space and economical with eye contact until he got a couple beers in him, and then all bets were off. They’d exploited the generosity of servers and bartenders across the city who had mistaken them as newly mated more than a handful of times; those nights usually ended with Castiel’s arm around his shoulders as they left the establishment, waving their thanks. Castiel played up the romance if it meant free drinks or dessert, but once they were alone, Dean starved for his hands.

Dean had missed a few talking points during meetings over the years, distracted by Castiel folding origami from post-it notes. Castiel’s hands were beautiful, his fingers long and elegant. When Dean discovered fluorescent paper cranes on the floor beside the trash, he pocketed them. A menagerie huddled in the back of his top drawer.

But it wasn’t just physical. Dean liked everything about him, even Castiel’s perverse sense of humor. Rather than be offended, Dean folded with laughter at his jokes about obscure, acrobatic sex positions. By contrast, he liked the respectful way Castiel gave feedback to their team. He didn’t speak down to anyone; he didn’t berate or condescend. Dean liked his gravelly voice; the way Castiel’s t-shirts clung to his back after three miles on the treadmill; his uncontained laughter at the action films Dean rented and pretended to enjoy. He liked the shape and color of his lips.

An intoxicated Dean had recklessly asked him out a couple times. Castiel’s rejections came in the form of a disappointed sweep of his eyes over Dean’s face, a hand on his arm urging him to stand up. “You’ve had too much,” he always said, far too gently. “I’ll get a cab.”

Those nights were the loneliest.

Dean had slept with men before, but alphas were built differently. Larger, for one, and their bodies weren’t designed to accept that kind of girth. That didn’t stop him from fantasizing about Castiel during his ruts, flipping Dean onto his stomach so he could slam into him from behind until Dean was spent.

In the dizzy aftermath of his most recent episode of _Castiel Novak, Sex God_ , Dean forced himself to confront the truth. He was emotionally and physically attracted to Castiel. To another alpha. He’d known that for years, but fantasy was different from acting on it, and this had gone on too long to keep ignoring. Assuming something did happen between them, assuming Castiel ever agreed to a relationship, what then? Imagining sex with him was one thing, but if it came to it, if Castiel reached for him, his breathing labored and eyes glazed, would Dean reach back?

He stripped the bed and chugged a bottled electrolyte drink to chase the cotton feeling from his tongue. Staring naked out over the gray-green Cuyahoga, he found his answer in the jealous coiling of his stomach, thinking about an omega helping Castiel through a rut in his place.

No. Whatever Castiel needed, Dean would willingly do: roll over, relinquish control, let Castiel take and take and take. Knot and claim him, and cradle him after. Dean was in love. He’d proudly bear the scar from Castiel’s teeth.

 

* * *

 

The meeting with Castiel wasn’t for an hour and Dean still had figures to go over, so he brewed a fresh pot of coffee. _Never make the coffee_ , Gordon had cautioned when Dean started at Sandover. Not if he expected to advance in the company. Designation wasn’t enough; you had to prove your status if you wanted to go places anymore. But mom and dad hadn’t raised him to believe alphas were inherently superior, and he’d more than demonstrated his worth to Sandover over the past decade. There was no reason to force menial tasks like making coffee onto his assistant, when he’d drunk the last three cups.

His musings were cut short by a skinny guy with a mullet from IT who’d been in to fix the issue with Dean’s printer last week.

“Hey, Dean, right? How’s it going!”

It was a shame Sam Wesson had moved on to a more thrilling line of work; Dean had liked him. They still grabbed beers occasionally when Sam was in Cleveland. The next time they got together, Dean was picking his brain about cell phones, because his Blackberry had taken to turning on and off at random, seemingly out of spite.

“Ash,” the technician reminded Dean and extended a hand. “Cool tie.”

Clearly, yellow had been a mistake. Dean considered stashing it in a desk drawer and blaming its absence on a lunch-related tie disaster.

With a polite but firm, “Have a good one,” he excused himself from Ash’s conversation and strolled back to his office.

Maybe Castiel would agree to get lunch in the restaurant on the ground floor for once. The tab would be on the company’s dime and they made a decent steak. Dean hadn’t eaten red meat in ages, not since Castiel had convinced him to give it up after a year-long campaign, but the craving to sink his teeth into something was especially strong today.

Charlie had left a post-it on his keyboard: Castiel had ordered their lunch through catering. Something vegetarian, most likely. Castiel was on a quinoa kick. At least Dean wouldn’t have to put in extra time on his Bowflex, not that there was anyone to appreciate his effort. He hadn’t bothered with a master cleanse in months.

Even though they’d be working, Dean was thrilled about the extra time together. Castiel had been away on another cruise last week. “Somewhere arid,” he’d said, though he hadn’t offered specifics when Dean fished for details. Castiel had a strict no-technology policy on vacation and never brought back photographs. But he’d smelled _divine_ upon his return Monday morning, and so strong that Dean caught a whiff of him under his closed office door and had trailed after a rumpled Castiel like a puppy.

His scent had since faded to the intensity Dean was used to: the barely there scent of an impending storm. Dean was left to wonder, with some embarrassment, if Castiel had been with an omega on his trip and what Dean had smelled was the afterscent of a stranger. His alpha howled, wounded at the thought of Castiel with anyone else.

His reaction was ridiculous. Castiel wasn’t _his_. Maybe Jo was right and he should give online dating a try. Victor, a detective who lived two floors down from him, swore by it. Dean agreed with it in theory. There was no such thing as true mates, no matter what popular culture would have you believe, a remnant of old-fashioned views determined to keep omegas in line by placing value on chastity and shaming promiscuity. In reality, Dean could pick any number of like-minded people and be perfectly happy. He wasn’t going to claim someone who only wanted him because of hard-wired instinct. (Besides, if Dean was expected to sit on the bench waiting for a cherry-pie-scented omega to fall into his lap, Ellen Smith was never getting herself a grandchild.)

Was Lisa still single? They’d gone out a couple times not too long ago when he’d been enrolled in her yoga class. She’d been sweet. Bendy.

He sent her a text to say hello and while awaiting her reply, watched the declining swing of the Newton’s Cradle positioned on the corner of his desk. It made a satisfying _clack-clack-clack._ Lisa's response arrived within minutes. She was surprised to hear from him, she said. How was he doing? She sent along a photograph of her family, a son and a mate of three years, and asked him to stay in touch. The next yoga session started in two weeks.

His phone went dark and he shoved it away. Had he really not gone on a date since he met Castiel? He pivoted the chair around to face the window, looking out for some time upon the columned facade of the building next door. It offered no answers.

Charlie knocked on his door at 11:40 to ask if he’d forgotten his meeting. Flustered, he gathered his paperwork and met Castiel in the department board room, a windowless box with synthetic gray carpeting in the center of the building. It smelled of detergent and the plastic odor of office furniture. They used it mainly for lunches and weekly team meetings.

“Hey, Cas.”

Castiel wore a suit and tie, expertly knotted at the throat. His hair, usually mussed as though someone had just run their hands through it, was combed and styled, and he was freshly shaved. He winked one blue eye.

Dean ignored the flutter of his heart, the way his mouth pulled at the corners in response to Castiel’s presence. He sat across from him and accepted the takeout container Castiel slid across the table.

“What’s with the _GQ_ act? HR on your ass again?”

Castiel paused around his fork. “Have you checked your email in the last hour?”

“Course I—shit.” Of all the times for his phone to take a crap. He pushed the power button to no avail. “My phone’s dead.”

“Again?”

“I need to replace it. What’s going on?”

“Change of plans. Adler asked the higher-ups to sit in. They want a roadmap for the rest of the year and they’re talking about a dedicated social media team.”

“Under whose direction?”

Castiel shrugged. “I assume yours.”

“I don’t use that stuff,” Dean admitted. He opened the takeout box. Castiel had ordered him a salad with grilled chicken. It wasn't steak, but he dug into it with relish. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Not unless Adler wants a company Grindr.”

Dean had heard the app’s name whispered around the water cooler but had no first-hand experience with it. From what he understood, it was intended for hookups—mainly horny alphas looking to get off. Castiel was likely trying to get a rise out of him, because he’d never mentioned it before, but Dean squirmed in discomfort, thinking of Castiel using such a service.

“Heh, yeah,” he laughed, hoping envy hadn’t been apparent in his scent, but Castiel’s expression didn’t change. He fanned a stack of papers on the table and they got to work.

 

* * *

 

The decade of meetings under Dean’s belt was worthless to prepare him for this one. He’d sweated through his dress shirt with minutes to spare and changed into a plain white button down he kept in his office for emergencies. Against it, the yellow tie looked obscenely sunny.

Castiel found him in the small bathroom located outside the conference room, doing a final check on his hair.

“You need to calm down,” Castiel ordered. “I could get my ass handed to me for saying this, but I can smell your panic in the hallway.”

“When has telling someone to calm down ever calmed anyone down?” Dean growled. He gave up on his hair. His pulse was a wild fluttering in his wrists and neck, a stampede of butterflies. “What if I’m getting fired.”

“You’re not getting fired.” Stepping closer, Castiel put a hand on each of Dean’s shoulders and met his eyes in the mirror. “You know this stuff backwards and forwards. I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

“Take a deep breath.”

Dean did. He caught a whiff of early summer rain and, moaning softly, let Castiel knead the tension from his shoulders. He dug a thumb into the base of Dean’s neck, just at his hairline. They never touched so intimately. It was unlikely they’d touch this way again, but in that moment, Dean wanted to melt backwards against him, to have Castiel fold him in his arms. He closed his eyes.

“Ready?” Castiel asked, slapping him soundly on the back. The dream scampered off, tail between its legs, and with it the warmth of Castiel’s hands. And although Dean wasn’t prepared, his stomach in knots and his mouth dry, they entered the conference room.

A glass wall, etched with wide horizontal stripes for privacy, separated it from the hallway. Sandover’s senior directors occupied both sides of the mahogany table. They were Dean’s equals, but he still felt uneasy. Zachariah Adler loomed at the head in a funereal black suit.

“Mr. Smith! Mr. Novak. Thanks for joining us. Have a seat and we’ll get started.” Zachariah motioned for them to sit side by side, facing him. Castiel slid into his seat with a fixed smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Dean followed.

“You’re probably both wondering why the last-minute change to this meeting,” Zachariah continued, folding his meaty hands together.

“Uh, yes. Yes, sir,” Dean said.

“Dean, you’re sweating bullets,” Zachariah laughed. “First, I want to assure you, neither of you is losing your job. Sandover is lucky to have both of you.”

The anxiety in his stomach untangled somewhat in the wake of Zachariah’s assurance and Dean breathed more easily. “Thank you, Zach. I appreciate that,” he said. “And may I say, it is an honor to work with such a fantastic team. I don’t know what I’d do without Castiel here. He’s a great asset.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Zachariah said, “because what I have to say concerns Mr. Novak especially. As you both know, digital marketing has become a larger part of our efforts over the last year. I met with the board this morning, and they want to allocate a larger portion of our budget to our digital presence and reduce our reliance on traditional advertising.”

Dean nodded. “Fine.”

“But they’re concerned the focus required to stay on top of trends will take too much of your time, Dean,” Zachariah continued. “I don’t want you to shift your focus from what you do best. We owe some of our biggest accounts to you, so I want to keep you exactly where you are. Which leaves Mr. Novak.”

“Sir?” Castiel said, leaning forward.

“The board wants to restructure the marketing department to include the existing sales team, which will remain under Mr. Smith’s direction, and a new advertising and social media team under your direction, Mr. Novak. Going forward, you’ll share joint responsibility for the department.”

Dean experienced a dual reaction to the news. The decent part of him was happy for Castiel. A director’s position meant a pay increase, nicer office, and his own assistant.

But his baser, primal half was angered by the challenge to his territory. He’d been solely in charge of the marketing department for years and saw no reason to change its structure, but he had no authority over the board. He wasn’t being demoted, not exactly, but having his responsibilities halved? Castiel becoming his equal in the department? He gritted his teeth to keep from snarling.

“If you accept the promotion, that is, Mr. Novak,” Zachariah said.

“Thank you, Mr. Adler,” Castiel said, flashing his teeth. “I’m flattered to be offered the opportunity and I’m happy to accept.”

“Wonderful. We’ll get the new contracts drawn up and over to legal. It’ll be a bit of a wait, but in the meantime, I’ll leave it to you and Mr. Smith to divide your team and work out a strategy between the sides of your department. If you need a temporary coordinator, we can work something out with HR, but from what I’ve seen, the two of you communicate well.”

“We do,” Dean said, finding his voice. “It won’t be a problem.”

“No,” Castiel agreed.

“Fantastic,” Zachariah said, and there was a murmur of concord among the other directors, who offered their congratulations. They moved on to the marketing strategy for the year, and Castiel had just offered a statistic about user engagement when someone knocked on the glass door.

Charlie, in a Gryffindor t-shirt mostly concealed by a smart blazer and pencil skirt, tiptoed into the conference room and bent to speak to Dean privately. She smelled of mint, the soft crush of his mother’s herb garden underfoot. “Sorry to bother you, boss, but RTA is on the line about the bid. Do you want to take it?”

“We’re almost done here. Tell them I’ll call them back in twenty minutes. Thanks, Charlie.”

Once the door had closed behind her, Bart, director of operations, whistled. “Did you get a whiff of her? Wouldn’t mind working around that every day.”

He was joined by Raphael, head of the finance department. “She should be at home. I miss the days when it was just alphas and betas in the workplace.”

The room rumbled with their collective chuckle. Though the comments made him uneasy, Dean kept his chin ducked. Charlie had worked for him the entire time she’d been at Sandover, and he considered her a friend. Work ethic was unrelated to designation. She made no secret of hers, cheerfully telling anyone who asked that she was mated to another female omega. Their mating was uncommon, considered unorthodox by some, but not unheard of. The world was changing.

Or Dean had thought it was. In this moment, as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, waiting for the laughter to die down, he wasn’t sure.

He cast a glance to Castiel, hoping to latch onto his perpetual calm, but Castiel was uncharacteristically rigid. The tip of his pen had torn through three layers of paper and he held his jaw clenched, but his chin was raised, sharp eyes appraising the men in the room. Dean’s nostrils filled with the pungent scent of ozone and he had a sudden _need_ to get Castiel out of there. He discreetly touched his arm and pushed back his chair, signaling Castiel to stand up.

It took a few minutes for the directors to disperse. Castiel shook hands with each of them, his smile huge and infectious, but it fell as soon as they’d gotten back to their own floor and closed the door to Dean’s office.

“Did you know about the restructuring before this?” Dean asked, taking off his jacket. He loosened his tie.

“You think I’d keep that from you?” Castiel challenged. There was a harsh edge to his voice, one he didn’t use with Dean often, and never in private.

“Sorry.” Dean scrubbed his forehead. “No. I know you wouldn’t.”

Castiel nodded toward the floor. “Since nothing is official yet, I want to take the weekend to think about how to split the team. Can we postpone any discussion until Monday?”

“Of course. Sounds good. You remember I’m not in tomorrow?”

“It’s on my calendar, and you haven’t shut up about it for days.” Rubbing his temples, Castiel gave him a weak smile. “If you don’t need anything more from me, I’m going back to my office. I think I’m getting a migraine.”

“You need me to drive you home?”

“No,” Castiel grunted, then seemed to regret it, adding in a calmer tone, “Enjoy your weekend, Dean.” He left without another word.

Dean worried over Castiel’s behavior while he prepared to make his call to RTA. He loathed when Castiel was upset. It made him feel like a failure, even though he supposed he had no right to feel that way.

If Dean secured a contract with the transit authority, he’d buy years of job security. He tried to focus his attention on the bid, but his thoughts wandered. It was lucky none of the directors had picked up on Castiel’s attitude or he could probably kiss his promotion goodbye. Were he and Charlie closer than Dean realized? Dean felt like an asshole for just sitting there when he could’ve spoken up in her defense, but he might have risked both of their jobs if he had. And Castiel hadn’t spoken out either. Dean would buy twice the cookie dough the next time Charlie fundraised for Omega Pride. Mom and Jo had liked the chocolate chip variety last time.

He sat on hold with RTA for three minutes before being put through to voicemail. He left a message for his contact letting them know he’d be available at his personal line and through email for the weekend, and decided to call it a night. It would take two hours to get to the cabin and he needed to buy groceries. He’d planned to swing by his condo first, but if he left the office now and drove straight to the ferry, he could catch an earlier boat and be there in time for the sunset. He could run to the general store first thing in the morning, and he kept enough clothing at the cabin to get him through a weekend.

He’d had enough of today. The yellow tie had earned eternal banishment to the back of his closet.


	2. Chapter 2

Once the boat arrived, the ferry ride only took twenty minutes, and it was still light when he arrived at the cabin. Dean opened a bottle of wine and sat on the porch swatting mosquitos, watching the sun set over the lake.

When it was dark, he went inside and dug a box of pasta from the cabinet, remembering he needed to charge his phone. He took the charger from his briefcase, but his phone wasn't in its usual compartment, just his headset. He searched his jacket pockets, but they too were empty.

Damn. He must have left his phone at the office. If he went back for it tonight, he wouldn’t be able to return to the island until the ferry started up again in the morning—assuming Benny was on duty and would let him in after hours. If he had to wait until business hours tomorrow, he might as well call the weekend a bust and report to work. The very notion had him on edge.

Seeing as he was already here and his laptop had internet connection, he could email anyone who might contact him over the weekend, to let them know he wasn’t available by phone. If it became imperative that he speak with someone, he could make a case with his neighbors. They didn’t exchange holiday cards, but they enjoyed drinks on the porch occasionally and the woman, Becky, liked to prod Dean about his nonexistent love life. They'd probably be glad to exchange phone time for one of Dean’s pies. He emailed Charlie, instructing her to forward any time-sensitive messages to his email and decided to enjoy three full days off.

He’d bought the cabin fully furnished a few years ago. It had cost more than he’d intended to spend, but the second mortgage was worth the sense of peace that overtook him the minute he rolled off of the ferry. It was a shocking contrast to his apartment in Cleveland. Dean thought of his taste as modern, but the first time he’d sat on the floral sofa, in front of a vast picture window overlooking the lake, and took in the previous owner’s matronly aesthetic, he’d felt at home.

His parents had visited once, shortly after he’d made the purchase, and he waved off the decor as a work in progress. In spite of his initial conviction to gut the place, he hadn’t replaced a stitch of it, not the open wooden shelving in the kitchen stacked with cream dishware, or the floral quilt over the full-sized bed. He wondered if his folks would be surprised he’d left it as-is or if it even mattered, but he cringed at the idea of anyone he knew seeing him in the context of such delicacy. Here, he was simply Dean, a friendly weekend neighbor who enjoyed baking and paid his taxes on time. Designation didn’t matter.

He settled into the generous couch. Ten minutes into a romantic comedy, the pasta water had reached simmering and there was a knock at the door. He supposed it was the neighbors coming to say hello and verify it was Dean who occupied the cabin. He appreciated that they checked on one another, though it would be a half hour to get Becky to leave if she got a foot in the door. He opened it with a presumptive smile that faltered as soon as he registered the person standing on the other side, and all of his rut-based fantasies came roaring to life.

“Cas?”

Castiel, hair flattened and his expression tired, exhaled in relief. “Dean.”

“What are you doing here?”

Castiel sheepishly held up Dean's phone. “I went back to your office to apologize and saw this on your desk. I stopped by your apartment, but you were already gone, so I figured, what the hell. You always talk about how much you love this place.”

Dean blinked several times. “You took a ferry to bring me my cell phone?”

Castiel shrugged. There was something out of sorts with his behavior, an erraticness to the way he moved, and Dean’s concern skyrocketed thinking of how quickly Castiel had left his office earlier.

“Come in, man. Mosquitoes,” he said as an excuse to herd Castiel inside.

“Nice apron,” Castiel said, and though Dean blushed furiously to be caught wearing it, Castiel’s tone didn't have any of the scrutiny Dean expected. In fact, Castiel sounded to be genuinely complimenting the pale yellow smock he’d bought because it matched the kitchen.

“Sorry you had to trek all the way out here ‘cause of my forgetfulness,” Dean said, hoping to tease Castiel's real motive out of him, but Castiel just shrugged and flopped down on the sofa as though he lived here. He kicked off his shoes and lay back against the throw pillows, folding an arm behind his head and peering up at Dean through his lashes. Dean took the opportunity to examine Castiel’s eyes. Just as he thought: slightly bloodshot, unfocused. Dean had enough first-hand experience with Castiel’s particular brand of recreation to ask, “What did you take?”

Castiel shrugged again, the extent of his reactions tonight, apparently.

“Do you have any beer?” he asked and Dean shook his head. Castiel knew he didn’t like it, though he usually kept a six-pack of ale in the fridge at home for when Castiel came by. He thought of offering wine, but without knowing what Castiel had in his system, alcohol was out of the question.

“I have tea or water.”

Castiel sighed. “Tea’s fine.”

Dean got up to make a pot. “Was there a long wait at the ferry?”

“Nah, it wasn’t bad.” Castiel drummed his hands on his thighs. “That wasn't … The real reason I went by your apartment is I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t realize you were leaving right after work.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I want to put in a complaint against Bart and Raphael, but I need you to back me.”

“What kind of complaint?” Dean asked, wiping his hands on his apron. He hung it on a peg and brought the tea into the living room.

“Discrimination,” Castiel said. He accepted a cup of tea but didn’t drink. “They’ve made comments like that in front of me before, but they were generic. What Bart said was about a specific employee. I can file it on my own, but it’ll be stronger if I can put your name as well.”

Dean remained standing and swished hot tea around his mouth. He scowled. “I know what they said was wrong, but do you really want to stir that pot? Raphael's been here longer than I have. They're not going to give him any more than a slap on the wrist.”

“And if we don't say something, maybe no one will.”

Dean studied him for a moment. “I didn't realize you and Charlie were so close.”

“We’re not.” Castiel sounded annoyed. “I can't be concerned for my co-worker’s well-being?”

“It was shitty, but why’s it got you so riled up?”

“What I want to know is why aren’t _you_ more upset about it?”

“Because they didn’t mean anything by it,” Dean argued. “People say stuff like that all the time. Bart never would’ve said it to her face.”

Castiel sat up and leaned forward over his knees. “God, Dean—that is such an _antiquated_ way of thinking. I can't believe you're the one saying this.”

“Hey, I’m not antiquated! Marketing is the most diverse department in the company.”

Castiel scoffed. “Three omegas isn’t diverse.”

“Three?” Dean did a quick roll call in his head but came up one short. “Who’s the third?”

“Wow.” Castiel laughed, but there was no amusement in it. “I was sure you’d figured it out earlier in the bathroom when you couldn't stop scenting me.”

“I—fuck you, I did no such thing!” Dean lied, mortified at being caught.

“Relax, I’m not offended.”

“I did not _scent you_.”

“Dean, I don’t mind. I ... In fact, I need to tell you something.” With shaking hands, Castiel slowly unbuttoned his collar to expose his neck. He turned his head to expose where his scent glands were located and waited.

Dean squirmed in disbelief, mouth watering at the long-desired invitation, but he didn’t dare move.

“Please,” Castiel said, craning his head further, lowering his eyes in unexpected submission. Dean felt suddenly uneasy.

“Cas, what is this?”

“Don’t make me beg,” Castiel whispered, the soft pitch alien in his mouth. On instinct, Dean crept forward, carefully lowering himself onto the sofa beside him. He wet his lips, bracing himself with a hand on his leg, and pressed his nose to Castiel’s neck.

Rolling off of Castiel was a storm. The scent rushed at Dean like a hurricane and coursed through him, raising the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. He’d never felt so immediately out of control, driven by the same need he experienced at the height of his ruts, amplified a hundredfold. His nostrils flared and he clutched the arm of the sofa to keep from launching himself at Castiel. He itched to sink his teeth into Castiel’s skin, to find the source of that scent and swallow it: the same healthy scent that had lured him into the coffee room last week. It hadn’t come from a stranger after all.

But this was stronger. _Fertile_. Only certain types of people smelled like that: female alphas, for one, and omega—

Dean jerked back. “Bullshit,” he said.

Beside him, Castiel miserably kneaded the edge of the sofa, his breathing rapid and strained, as though he were humiliated. “Why do you think I take off twice a year at six-month intervals?”

“But y-you …” Dean stammered, trying to think past the siren call of Cas’s open shirt, how easy it would be to latch onto his throat and _bite_. “You said you went someplace hot.”

Castiel swallowed, his head still angled down. “Semantics.”

“You’re telling me you spent the entire week …”

“Yes.”

That implied an alpha, which meant another alpha had touched Castiel, an alpha who wasn’t _Dean_ —oh, god, no. No, this wasn’t happening. Dean covered his mouth to keep from screaming but envy surged up in him so quickly, the room stunk of it. Dean shook with fury that Castiel must’ve interpreted as disgust, because he laughed bitterly and raked a hand through his hair.

“Don’t look so appalled.”

“You’re my _best friend_!” Dean exploded, choked with anger toward a faceless rival. It tempered the lust for now. “How did I not know this about you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Infuriatingly, Castiel just shrugged a third time.

“You don’t trust me?”

Castiel motioned to the room around them. “Pot, kettle.”

“Does anyone else at the office know?” Dean knew he sounded bitter.

“HR. For medical reasons.”

“Why wasn’t I told when you were hired?”

Castiel gave him an unimpressed look. “Probably because of the antidiscrimination laws.”

“Yeah, but I’m a …”

“Workaholic?” Castiel spit out. Dean flattened his mouth into a displeased line, but Castiel continued. “Sycophant? Caffeine addict? What label do you want?”

“Alpha,” Dean said under his breath.

“They didn’t tell you because it doesn’t affect my ability to fulfill the requirements of my job. Not that it's any of your business, but I'm on suppressants.”

“Are _those_ the pills you pop all the time?”

“Some of them. I also use blockers, but I washed them off before I came here.” Castiel shuddered and pulled out a joint.

“Don’t you fucking smoke in here,” Dean snapped, although the skunky odor would likely mask Castiel’s scent and allow him to _think_. He’d never get the smell of him out of the couch.

Castiel held up both hands. “Far be it for me to disrespect another guy’s nest.”

The blush surged on Dean’s face. “It’s not a nest!” he sputtered. Castiel tilted his head back, exposing the long column of his throat, and laughed humorlessly. He laid the joint on the coffee table.

“Man, are you wound up. When’s the last time you got laid?”

“Unless you’re offering, it’s none of your damn business.”

Castiel gave him a lazy once over and shrugged. “I wouldn’t kick you out of bed.”

Dean opened his mouth but couldn’t think of a retort that didn’t involve dragging Castiel into the bedroom. Instead, he held his breath and stomped into the kitchen to check on dinner.

“I hate how you act when you’re high, Cas, I fucking hate it. I can’t believe you were stupid enough to drive.” He stirred the sauce with too much vigor and sloshed it onto the counter. It hissed and smoked where it drooled into the burner. Cursing, he wiped it away.

Another alpha’s hands on Castiel was all Dean could think about. Was he so inadequate? Castiel owed him nothing, but he would've offered; he would've been _honored_ to help him through it, to share something that intimate with someone he cared about. Someone he ...

The sauce bubbled as violently as his jealousy around the edges of the pot. He switched off the heat and spooned the sauce over a plate of pasta.

“Carbs? Adventurous,” Castiel said behind him. Dean flinched, reining in the instinct to scent him when Castiel stepped closer. “Smells good.”

Dean accepted it as an apology for his behavior. “I'm going to the grocery store in the morning. This is all I had.”

Castiel put a warm hand on the center of Dean’s back. “I didn’t drive like this,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t sure I could face you. I was outside for an hour before I worked up the nerve to go up to the door.”

“Where’d you park?”

“In the street.”

Castiel had likely taken the last ferry. There wouldn't be another until morning, and with no other way off the island, he’d need somewhere to sleep. Dean imagined him spending the night in his car and shuddered. Castiel had just gone through _heat_ , and though he hadn’t trusted Dean enough to share that fact with him, Dean was damn well going to take care of him while he was here. Castiel would probably refuse to take Dean’s bed on principle since Dean wouldn’t have offered it yesterday, but Dean could set him up on the sofa, and he could feed him.

Castiel’s thumb traced the outline of Dean’s shoulder blade through his shirt, sending a shockwave throughout his body. “I apologize for showing up like this. I would have called, but …”

“Forget it,” Dean croaked, remembering his dead phone. He put it on charge and motioned to the pasta steaming in the colander. “You want a plate?”

“Is there enough for me?”

“Of course.”

Then Castiel was moving away from him, leaving the cooling impression of his handprint on Dean’s back, and half the kitchen between them.

 

* * *

 

They ate on the couch. Ashamed to be caught watching a romance flick, Dean hastened to close his laptop, but Castiel slapped his hand away.

“Leave it on. I haven't seen this one.” He laughed uproariously at all of the same places Dean found funny and didn't say anything when Dean teared up during the emotional climax.

“I knew no one could love sports that much,” Castiel said when the credits rolled. “I’m glad to know we can supplement pizza night.”

Dean smiled easily for the first time since Castiel arrived. “There are blankets in the closet if you get cold. Bathroom’s that way. Do you … I have a couple t-shirts if you don’t want to sleep in your clothes.”

“I usually sleep naked,” Castiel said, with a fleeting smirk at Dean’s following blush, “but I’ll take a t-shirt. These were the only spare clothes I had in the car.”

“Okay. Oh—the first ferry leaves at six, if you want to set an alarm.”

The merriment evaporated from Castiel's eyes. “Don’t worry,” he said flatly. “I’ll be out of your hair as soon as the sun’s up.”

“That’s not …” Dean started to protest, but maybe it was better if Castiel left first thing in the morning so Dean’s body wouldn’t do something stupid, like trigger a premature rut and lose him a co-worker and friend in one swoop. “I’ll get you that t-shirt.”

He brought a pillow from his bed, too. Though the pillowcase was clean, he’d slept on the pillow so many times, his scent had undoubtedly saturated the filling. “I don't ... I can wrap it in something if it's too strong?”

“I'm around you five days a week, sometimes more,” Castiel said. He took the pillow from Dean and held it against his lap. “I’m conditioned to your scent.”

Dean swallowed hard. “If I ever, I mean, if I make you uncomfortable …”

“The only way you're going to make me uncomfortable is if you start treating me differently.”

“Okay, but—”

“But nothing. This is why I don't tell people. At my previous jobs, they assumed it made me weaker, or that I would be a distraction to other employees. Let me ask you something. How many upper-level positions at Sandover are held by omegas?”

There had to be a few. Dean knew the directors were all alphas and betas—he’d been at many of their weddings—but there must be a couple omegas among the department managers.

“Um,” he said.

“One,” Castiel said, pointing to himself. “And I wouldn’t be where I am if they knew.”

“You don’t know that,” Dean argued.

“Really? Do you know how many heat jokes I’ve had to sit through since I started? Omegas can't think twice a year—don’t put them in charge. Is it hot in here or is it the omega? You know suppressants raise the risk of blood clots? I risk my own life taking them, but if I don't, no one would take me seriously.” Castiel took a deep breath. “You’re worried someone might find out you like chick flicks. I’m worried about getting _fired_. Or assaulted.”

“Cas …”

But Castiel pushed ahead, dismissing whatever Dean was going to say with the wave of his hand. “I admire Charlie. Sometimes I'm jealous of her, because she doesn't hide what she is. But I never could have gotten where I am without the drugs. So don't you dare pity me, and don't you dare treat me like someone else on Monday morning.”

“I won’t,” Dean promised. “I know it doesn’t mean much after the fact, but I’m really sorry I didn’t speak up in the meeting. I feel like hell I let you sit through that, Cas. Any of it. If I’d known ...”

“It’s not your job to protect me,” Castiel snapped, his dismissal a knife to Dean’s heart.

“I—I didn’t mean …” Dean started, reeling from the inferred rejection, the room gone sideways. Blood drained from his head and his stomach dropped out the way it did when Jo had forced him to ride the Dragster. He tasted acid in the back of his throat, afraid he might faint or vomit, but Castiel shushed him with a hand on his forearm.

“Having you there today helped.”

The room stopped spinning. Dean wet his lips and nodded, uncertain of what to say in reply, mesmerized by the bracelet of Castiel’s tanned fingers around his wrist.

Castiel changed for bed, first removing his shirt. When his hands fell on his fly, Dean averted his eyes to be polite, but he forced himself to look back. He’d promised Castiel he wouldn’t treat him differently, and they’d never been shy about nudity before. Castiel was fit from running. He had a solid, muscular chest and legs. His physique put Dean’s to shame. All the times they’d gone swimming together at the gym, or relaxed shoulder to shoulder in the sauna, and Dean has never assumed, never would have _dreamed_ that between his legs, Castiel actually had a—

Dean was a fucking asshole knothead, obviously. _Jesus_.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, stumbling into his bedroom on wobbly legs and locking himself in for the night. He cranked the window wide, praying the wind off of the lake would clear the scent of rain.

 

* * *

 

Dean wouldn’t have been surprised to find Castiel had snuck out during the night, so his heart leapt when he discovered him still asleep on the couch a little after 7am. He’d thought about dressing fully before leaving his room. His mother would be appalled if she knew he was in boxers and a dressing robe in front of an omega, but he strode into the living room with his chest bare, bedhead and all.

Castiel smelled sleep-warm, sweeter than he had last night. The daily suppressants had worked their way out of his system along with whatever else he’d taken, and since Castiel hadn’t reapplied his blockers yet, Dean inhaled his natural scent for the first time.

It was like standing outside during a rainstorm, the fragrance of wet grass and leaves. The soil, newly wet underfoot after a drought.

Rather than wake him, Dean made a full pot of coffee and a grocery list, pride and contentment buzzing through every inch of his body.

If Castiel left in the next few minutes, he had time to get the ferry and reach the city before the office opened, though Dean suspected Castiel needed time off as much as Dean did if he’d come all this way to talk about filing a complaint. They could’ve dealt with it Monday or via email, but Castiel had gotten in a car and paid a boat to ferry him across a lake. No way Dean was sending him back, not until he’d made sure Castiel was in a frame of mind to drive. Until the promotion went through, Castiel was still technically Dean's employee, which meant Dean was in the position to authorize his vacation time.

The general store wouldn’t open until nine. Dean left a voicemail with Meg Masters in HR saying Castiel wouldn’t be in today and browsed the _New York Times_ online over a cup of coffee. The lake was too cold for Dean to enjoyably swim this time of the year, but a walk around the bay later in the afternoon might be nice. He’d like to show Castiel around and he knew he could use the exercise. Fresh air. An office job meant a sedentary lifestyle. He sat too many hours during the day, and while his Bowflex was convenient and kept his muscles toned, its clinical sterility paled in contrast to a long, leisurely walk around the island.

Castiel roused from his sleep a little before eight thirty, rolling onto his back to stretch languorously before he opened his eyes. He sat up, blinking at his unfamiliar surroundings.

“Shit. What time is it?” His voice had the usual edge of roughness that set Dean’s skin on fire.

“Half past eight. I called you out.” Dean glanced over the top of his laptop. “Figured you needed the rest. If you don’t have the vacation time for it, I’ll say you were out for professional development.”

Castiel swung his legs to the floor and leaned over them, catching his head in his hands. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “It’s fine. I was going to call out sick anyway.”

“The store opens in a half hour if you want to come with me.”

“I should look up the ferry schedule.”

“Do you want coffee?” Dean asked hopefully. He poured a cup and brought it over without waiting for an answer. Castiel’s hair was flattened on one side from being smashed against the pillow and outrageously tousled on the other. He took a few sips and set the mug aside.

“This couch is pretty comfortable,” Castiel said.

In broad daylight, the garish floral chintz screamed off of the sofa. “It came with the place,” Dean said defensively.

“How long have you owned this?”

“Since the summer before you came on board.”

“It’s not exactly how I pictured it looking,” Castiel said, drawing one knee up onto the couch so he could rest his chin on it. “You're a picket fence away from _Pleasantville_.”

“Fuck you,” Dean laughed.

“From the way you talked about it, I thought it would resemble a hunting lodge. Antlers mounted on the walls, wood-burning stove, a generous application of plaid.”

“Plaid?” Dean scoffed, to Castiel’s apparent amusement. He faintly smiled, the skin creasing around his eyes.

“I was right about the stove.”

“Didn’t see any reason to change it. Everything was in good condition, and I’m not here often enough that it was worth the investment.”

Castiel stared at him for a while, mouth twisting as he did, as though he were chewing the inside of his lip. “I don’t give a shit if you like this couch. Why are you so concerned with what people think of you?”

Dean scowled at the rebuke. “You’re one to talk. If Bart hadn’t run his mouth yesterday, you’d still be lying to me.”

But Castiel made a disapproving noise and shook his head. “That’s not the same. You could wear a sequined fuchsia jumpsuit into work on Monday and they wouldn’t touch you. They’d say you’re eccentric. But if I went into heat early? It wouldn’t matter what I had on. I guarantee I’d be gone by month’s end.”

“That’s illegal,” Dean said, flushing at Castiel’s easy conversation about something so personal.

“They’d come up with another reason, but I’d know the real one. It wouldn’t be the first time this happened.”

Dean couldn’t be certain if Castiel was challenging his loyalty or was simply wary because of past experience, but either option stung.

“I’m not going to say anything,” he mumbled, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I know.” Castiel stared at him for a few seconds. Then the sincerity fell from his voice and he added, smirking, “You’d have to figure out how to use Instagram without me.”

 

* * *

 

The first rule of the island was _no dieting_ , so Dean took pleasure in selecting a loaf of cinnamon swirl bread, a wedge of brie, an entire pint of pistachio ice cream—things he regularly denied himself in exchange for a trim waistline. He bought ground sirloin to make burgers for dinner, a luxury he hadn’t enjoyed in so long, he’d all but forgotten the flavor. Castiel was modest in his selections: a box of herbal tea, breakfast biscuits, and a tub of Greek yogurt.

“Are we not paying you enough?” Dean ribbed, and it dawned on him how little he actually knew about Castiel’s personal life.

Castiel had met Dean’s parents and had a good rapport with Jo, but Dean had never been introduced to Castiel’s family. Last Thanksgiving, Castiel had accompanied Dean to his parents’ house for dinner, much to his mother’s confusion. She’d pulled him aside under the pretense of having him mash the potatoes.

“I always knew you liked the boys, son, but I didn’t realize you liked them the same as yourself.”

Dean had reluctantly admitted that he and Castiel weren’t together, merely good friends. She’d scowled at him, then passed the heavy cream and put him to work, but didn’t pry for more information, though she’d given them calculating looks at dinner. And despite her best efforts at bribery via cherry pie (her specialty), even she hadn’t been able to weasel information out of Castiel beyond the name of his sister, Hannah, and that his estranged brother had left when Castiel was still in high school.

Castiel never spoke about his parents. Guys’ night had always been in restaurants or at Dean’s apartment, so Dean didn’t know Castiel’s current address, only that he commuted from Westlake, where he’d moved about a year ago. Dean knew because he’d arranged for moving boxes from building maintenance. He’d offered to borrow his dad’s truck and help, but Castiel had kindly refused assistance.

“I don’t eat much for breakfast,” Castiel said distractedly, staring at his three items in the shopping basket.

“What about the rest of the weekend? Don’t tell me you’re going to eat red meat,” Dean said, allowing Castiel to infer what he wanted. It wasn’t exactly an invitation. Castiel could take his groceries back to the mainland and they could pretend Dean hadn’t asked. But Castiel got a look at Dean’s face, at the way he was pretending to read a sale price on a box of frozen waffles, and obviously discerned what he needed to.

“You want me to stay?” he asked with a standoffishness he’d never used with Dean before. And while Dean couldn’t be a hundred percent certain he wasn’t asking Castiel to stay because of a base alpha instinct to protect him, the rational, human part of him was doing it because Castiel was a _friend_.

“You look like you could use a weekend away,” Dean said. “There’s plenty to do out here: fishing, a couple museums, a par-3 course if you’re up for it. And there’s a handful of restaurants. Or you can just relax. If you want.”

Castiel blinked. “You’ve never offered before.”

“Well, you’ve never followed me.”

“I suppose it’s because I would’ve seen your floral nightmare,” Castiel whispered, trailing around Dean’s back. He selected a box of veggie sausage breakfast sandwiches from the freezer case and shook it in Dean’s face. “I need a little meat in my mouth if I’m going to kick your ass on a golf course.”

“Hey, I was hungover that time,” Dean countered, but Castiel snorted and swatted him on the ass as he went by. “And that’s not meat.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, Smith.”

 

* * *

 

Back at the cabin, Castiel heated up two of the breakfast sandwiches and ate them sitting on the edge of the counter, licking grease from his fingers while Dean pretended not to squirm. It was the same type of behavior Castiel had exhibited at hotels and in the break room over the years, the same playful flirtation, but today it spun his thoughts in every direction.

What if their flirtation over the years had been real, not two co-workers horsing around, but two people actively courting one another? What if all those times Castiel had come over to Dean’s apartment had been for a different motivation than watching baseball? What if Castiel had come here last night because he’d been upset and needed to be near Dean, because Dean made him feel as calm and collected as Dean felt around Castiel? What if, by some miracle, Castiel was as hopelessly gone over Dean as Dean was over him?

What if Dean could get a fucking grip, was the better question. He crammed the remaining breakfast sandwiches into the freezer and spared a moment to suck in the cold air.

“I didn’t bring my golf shoes,” Castiel said. “Think they’ll let me play in these?”

When he kicked his feet, the hem of his linen pants lifted to reveal a pair of terrible sandals that had no business being attractive on anyone.

“Yeah, you should be fine,” Dean said, biting back laughter.

He fixed himself toast with butter and jam. The butter damn near punched an orgasm out of him. Was a size 34 waist worth constant self-denial? It’s not like Castiel noticed. Or maybe he _did_ notice. Maybe he didn’t care, if the sandals were any indication. Dean was frankly surprised Castiel hadn’t tried wearing them to the office yet just to mess with HR.

“Where’d you get those things, anyway?”

“Thrift store,” Castiel said. “I know they’re not Tom Ford, but they’re comfortable.”

“ _Wish_ I could afford Tom Ford,” Dean mumbled, fantasizing about Italian calfskin monk straps. “Are you ready to go?”

“If you don’t mind, I thought I’d shower first.” Castiel plucked at his shirt. “And I didn’t bring any extra clothes with me.”

“Wear anything of mine you want.”

“Do you mind if I go through your drawers?”

“Uh...” There was the small matter of what Castiel would find in the top right drawer, but if he was comfortable enough to reveal himself to Dean, then Dean wasn’t going to get prissy over lingerie. There wasn’t anything wrong with it. He’d die if his father knew he wore it sometimes, but intellectually, he knew it was only a kink.

“It’s fine,” he said.

The longer Castiel was in the bedroom, the more Dean prepared to be harassed, but Castiel came out fifteen minutes later in khakis and a white polo shirt, hair damp and combed back from his face. He hadn’t shaved since yesterday. A shadow crept along his jaw.

“Do you mind if we take a walk first?” he asked. “I didn’t get my run in this morning.”

“We could head over to the bay,” Dean said, flustered and pleased by the sight of Castiel in his clothes. “The waterfront is pretty. It’s narrow but it’s good for a stroll. Or there’s a lighthouse if you want something more touristy.”

“I want to stretch my legs. I’m not worried about the view.”

“The beach it is,” Dean said.

 

* * *

 

Castiel had rolled up his pant legs and removed his sandals, which swung from his hand as they made their way along the shore. The beach wasn’t twenty feet from the treeline to the water, but it was wide enough for them to walk side-by-side and avoid getting wet. The lake had left a stripe of brown plants at its farthest reach. They dried in the late morning sun, strewn on top of the pebbles that made up the sand and extended into the lake where they disappeared beneath gray waves.

In the distance, the mainland was visible, a good challenge for someone athletically inclined but too far for Dean to consider swimming. He stumbled over a dormant metal fire ring. It showed evidence of a recent bonfire: a crushed soda can and charred logs, the remains of a takeout box. Castiel looked over when he noticed Dean’s change in direction and smiled, and cast his eyes toward the sky.

“I see why you come here.”

Dean held his breath as Castiel tested the water. In the sunlight, his hair was lush with honey tones, rather than the dull brown Dean was used to seeing under the office’s harsh fluorescents, and his skin, flushed from exertion, radiated a healthy, golden hue.

“Okay, no swimming,” Castiel laughed, shaking water from his foot.

Dean sat down on the beach and stretched out his legs. After a pause, Castiel settled beside him. He plunged his fingers into the sand, burying his hands to the knuckles.

“My brother would like it here,” he said.

“What’s he been up to?”

“Working. It’s been hard for him to get anything full-time because of the baby.”

“You’re an uncle?”

Castiel looked at him for a few seconds. “Yeah. Gabe’s got a son, Samandriel. Sam. He’s two. I suppose he’s not a baby anymore.”

“Why haven’t you ever told me about him?”

Castiel drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, locking his hands against his calves. He stared forward, at no particular point on the water, but deliberately not looking at Dean. Dean watched his throat work, the clench of his jaw and jump of his adam’s apple when he swallowed. He longed to lay his head on Castiel’s shoulder and dip his nose into the hollow of his throat. He wanted to shift closer, to find out if he could ease the heaviness and apprehension that had crept into Castiel’s scent.

“Did I ever tell you about my parents?” Castiel asked rather than answering.

“No.”

“My dad was gone most of my childhood. I don’t know if he ran off or if my mother forced him to leave, but he wasn’t around. And my mom, she did what she thought was best for us, but her ideas are old-fashioned. Her parents married her off before her first heat.”

“I didn’t realize people still did that,” Dean said.

“It’s not like they advertise it, but people talk. You have a family friend, their alpha son’s about the same age, and if they can tolerate each other… In my mom’s case, she hit heat, he hit his rut, and nine months later, voila. Gabe’s the oldest by a year, then Hannah, then me.”

“You’ve never talked about your sister.”

“Hannah’s an alpha. She left for college and never came back home. She’s got a mate and two kids, picket fence, the whole nine yards. I haven’t seen her in many years.” Castiel took a breath. “But Gabe is like me. Mom paid for him to go to college, but when he was in his junior year, he went into heat and she insisted he get a mate. Wouldn’t hear otherwise. Got it all arranged—a friend of a friend—and said he couldn’t come home if he refused, threatened to cut off his tuition, so he took off before it could happen. I was fifteen.”

“Cas, I’m sorry.”

“I spent the next few years looking for him, but he was good at covering his tracks. I hoped him running off would change something in my mom, but she was convinced if he’d mated like she’d said, his alpha would’ve gotten him under control since dad hadn’t been around to do it. I think that’s why I started behaving the way I do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at me. I’m not exactly an omega poster child. I played football, I ran track. I even dated a couple omegas. Nobody guessed—it’s not like it mattered at that age. And I think my mom was happy to pretend she had an alpha son.” Castiel licked his lips and his brow creased. “When I was nineteen, I started to feel strange—out of control—and I knew what it was. I’d seen what happened to Gabriel. I also knew my mother would give me the same ultimatum she’d given him, so I got the hell out of there. I went to Hannah. I thought she’d help, but she wanted to call our mom. I ripped the phone out of the wall and ran. Found a shelter that took me in until my heat had passed.”

“On your own?”

Castiel shrugged. “It sucks but it’s not intolerable. A lot of us don’t share heats. It’s safer, for one. And it’s not like I knew any different back then.” He got a dark look on his face, like the sun darting behind a cloud. “Anyway, since I was over eighteen and unmated, they couldn’t send me back, so I stayed on my own. Crashed on a lot of couches while I saved up for a place. Moved around, got a job, started on suppressants and testosterone. Invested in good scent blockers. People assumed what they wanted and they left me alone.”

“And your brother?”

“He found me. I don’t exactly have a common name. I was finishing up school in Chicago, had a marketing job lined up, and he showed up on my doorstep. I’d never seen him so thin. I didn’t have a lot of money, but I had more than he did, so I convinced him to move in. No one questioned him being there. They assumed I was his alpha, which, by the way, is fucking weird when it’s your brother.”

“I can imagine,” Dean said, blanching at the thought of Jo being mistaken for his mate.

“There was a guy at the company where I worked.” Castiel stopped speaking for a few seconds and ran a hand over his mouth. “A beta. You remind me of him. He was in accounting and we got to be good friends. I’d been with the company for a couple years at that point–I must’ve been about twenty-six? We hung out sometimes and I liked him. I thought I could trust him, so I introduced him to Gabe. It only took him one trip through my medicine cabinet to figure out what I was.”

“He went snooping?”

“He had a headache,” Castiel dismissed. “I didn’t think anything about it, but the following week, the whole office was talking about it. I’m not sure if he meant it to get out, but it did. The way they looked at me, Dean—it was like they didn’t know me anymore. They left me out of meetings, cut me from projects, basically made me a glorified secretary. There was whispering. Jokes. And then the harassment started.”

“Did you tell someone?”

“It wouldn’t have done any good,” Castiel snapped. He pinched the bridge of his nose. His voice, when it came out again, was flat. “I knew the only way I could change things was to get high enough in a company before anyone found out, so I'd have leverage. Every marketing team in Chicago knew about me by then–we all went to the same networking mixers–so I tendered my resignation, sublet my apartment, and we moved here. I put in five years at Smuckers before the position at Sandover opened up, and, well. You know the rest.”

“And Gabe? He’s here with you?”

“He and Sam live with me. I finally paid off my student loans and bought a house in Westlake.”

He made no mention of Gabe’s partner, so Dean assumed they were deceased or out of the picture.

“A mortgage is expensive,” Castiel continued. “And so is daycare. But having a kid around is a fucking delight. You should hear things that come out of his mouth!”

“Do you have a picture?”

Castiel kept it buried in his phone. Sam had light blond curls, almost white, and a grin like Castiel’s. He sat on the lap of a sunny man with chin-length hair.

“Is that your brother?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Castiel said fondly. “Full blooded, though we don’t look much alike.”

“Sam looks like you, though,” Dean said. He nudged Castiel’s shoulder. “I’ll never say anything. You have my word.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“I understand why you didn’t.”

Castiel put his phone away and leaned into Dean’s side. “I wish I had. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I’d like Gabe to meet you. And Sam, if you’re willing.”

Slowly, Dean began to rub Castiel’s back, hoping he could make Castiel understand what it meant to him that Castiel had finally opened up, that they could be honest with each other.

“I’d like that,” he said. “We can all come up here this summer. There’s lots of stuff for kids.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course I wouldn’t mind, Cas. I’d do anything for you,” Dean murmured. Realizing what he’d just confessed, he hastily amended, “You or your brother. You know you’re like family to me.”

“I think of you as my family as well,” Castiel said.

Every breath carried his fragrance. If Dean lowered his face, he could kiss the top of Castiel’s hair and rub his cheek against it. He wanted Castiel’s scent on him for the rest of the day. But eventually, Castiel elbowed him in the ribs and got up.

“Enough emotional hemorrhaging for one morning. Let’s smack the hell out of some golf balls.”


	3. Chapter 3

Saunders Golf Course was a leisurely way to spend a late morning. Nestled in a thick stand of coniferous woods behind a series of cottages, the course consisted of nine tadpole-shaped holes within a stone’s throw of one another. For $20 each, they rented clubs and hit through twice. It paled against championship courses Dean had been privileged to play, but since his golf game had lately been relegated to the seven-foot putting matt in his office, a par-3 course was a luxury.

Everything about the way Castiel played golf was distracting: the way he held the club in his large, tanned hands. His stance when he teed off, feet apart and knees slightly bent, as if he were presenting. Except this wasn’t pornography and Dean was an unmitigated asshole. Golf had been a terrible idea.

Castiel seemed to pick up on Dean’s distress but did nothing to assuage the situation. Instead, he grinned at Dean around a squat pine tree so Dean missed his putt. When Castiel hoisted his clubs over his shoulder to walk to the next hole, Dean’s khakis—a size too large and unbelted—hung low on his hips, revealing the angle of his hip bone. Dean chased its shadow beneath the waistband and suppressed a whine.

He bogeyed the fourth hole and embarrassed himself so badly on the sixth, he began to wonder why he hadn’t suggested miniature golf instead. But Castiel stayed under par, impressing the couple two holes behind them, who clapped when he got a hole-in-one. The woman, small with dark hair and eyes and a prominent claiming scar on her neck, complimented his precision.

“Thanks,” Castiel said, effortlessly navigating the transition into polished salesman. “I don’t get to play as much as I’d like. Are you here on vacation?”

“Our anniversary,” she said. She motioned to her mate, an average-sized man in a green henley pawing through their clubs. An alpha, Dean supposed. Other designations seldom marked their partners. Charlie and Dorothy, for example, wore rings.

The woman looked expectantly from Castiel to Dean. “And you?”

“We live in Cleveland,” Dean said through the smile he wore to meetings. “We’re up for the weekend.”

“Celebrating anything special?”

She thought they were a couple. Dean steeled himself, prepared to tell her otherwise, but he never got the words out because Castiel slung a familiar arm around his waist.

“Just wanted time to ourselves.” He leaned his head against Dean’s temple and squeezed his hip, locking Dean against his side. They’d performed this routine so many times, Dean had lost count, but it felt awful today. With a smile, the woman wished them good luck on the rest of their game and rejoined her partner.

“What the hell was that?” Dean hissed, shrugging off Castiel’s arm like it burned.

“You smelled sad.”

“Don’t do that again.” Dean scrubbed angrily at the sudden burning sensation in his eyes. They watered badly. It must be his allergies, something here on the golf course they didn’t have in the city—was ragweed in bloom?

Castiel touched his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Forget it,” Dean muttered. He tried to walk away, to the safety of the next hole, but Castiel caught him by the elbow.

“Are you ashamed of me, now that you know?”

“What? No!”

“We pretend to be a couple all the time!” Castiel challenged. “Why’re you making a big deal out of this?”

“Because I thought you were an alpha!” Dean snapped and immediately covered his mouth, hyperventilating into his fingers.

Castiel looked crestfallen. He held out a hand that Dean avoided. “Dean …”

Fuck it. He’d already said too much. He might as well get it all out and thoroughly ruin their friendship.

“I figured you were straight,” Dean said miserably, swallowing the lump in his throat, “or that you don’t date other alphas, ‘cause you turned me down the couple times I worked up the guts to say something, but you … you just don’t want me. And I respect that, Cas, I do. It’s your life. But if we’re going to stay friends, you can’t _do_ stuff like that anymore. It fucks with my head.”

“You think it doesn’t fuck with mine? Having to constantly fake disinterest in someone who’s in love with me?”

Dean froze. “What?”

Castiel’s expression turned guilty. He rubbed his thumb inside the bend of Dean’s elbow. “I told you, I know your scent. I know your moods before you do. Why do you think we work so well together?”

Dean’s traitorous eyes leaked tears down his cheeks. He whipped out a tissue. Castiel mentioned an allergy attack to the couple, who were visibly concerned by Dean’s outburst and had begun to approach. He led Dean off of the golf course, into a shady spot between two pine trees, and kept a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“How long have you known?” Dean whispered, too embarrassed to look Castiel in the eye.

“A while. It’s mutual, by the way.”

Dean exhaled a gasp and a sense of calm settled in him. He cleaned his face and tucked the tissue in his pocket, then found the courage to look up. “Why … why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought once you knew the truth about me, you might not be interested anymore. Maybe you’re not into omegas.” Castiel toyed with the front of Dean’s polo shirt, letting his hands come to rest against his collarbone. “I intended to keep things between us professional, but the more we got to know each other, the more I liked you. Then we became friends, which was more than I’d hoped for. If it were only about me, I would’ve told you sooner, but I had to think about Gabe and Sam.”

Dean nodded, settling his hands on Castiel’s waist.

“When you invited me home for Thanksgiving last year, I was going to tell you everything,” Castiel murmured, “but you were so quick to correct your mother about our relationship, I convinced myself I’d misunderstood your intentions, that in spite of everything your scent told me, it was just my friendship you wanted.”

Dean recalled how subdued Castiel had been at dinner that night, the quiet “ _no, no one_ ” he’d given in response to Ellen’s question about partners. “Oh,” he murmured.

“But I calm you down when you get upset at work,” Castiel said. “I _know_ I do, even on my suppressants. Do you know how rare that is, outside of a mating bond? I wasn’t sure you realized it until yesterday in the bathroom and it gave me hope.” He stepped closer, so the tips of their shoes touched. “I was so afraid I’d scared you off last night; but this morning, when you asked me to stay, and the way you touched me on the beach … Tell me I’m not wrong. That you want more than this. Please say you still want me.”

“I want you,” Dean gasped. “Cas, I want you more than anything.”

Castiel’s composure fractured. His laughter shot out like a sob and he pulled Dean into an embrace, rocking him back and forth with the breeze. Dean shook in his arms, unable to stop the deluge of fresh tears.

“I know,” Castiel said, cradling Dean’s head on his shoulder. “But I’ve got you, sweetheart. Just breathe, okay?”

Nodding, Dean heaved breath after breath against Castiel’s skin, each halving the tremors in his body. After a few minutes, he’d stopped crying and panted weakly into Castiel’s neck, hands underneath Castiel’s shirt, resting on the damp, warm skin on his lower back.

“Better?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah,” Dean croaked. He pulled back and angled his head to one side, blushing when he said, “Do you need to, um …?”

Castiel stared with a wide-eyed, wondrous expression, as if he expected Dean to recant. When he didn’t, Castiel licked his lips and lowered his nose to Dean’s throat for the first time. Shivering, he took a long, slow inhalation and moaned brokenly, then began to kiss Dean’s skin in earnest. His lips were tender on Dean’s neck, a ladder of whispered kisses up the column of his throat, followed by a graze of teeth. Dean lolled his head toward his shoulder, enraptured by the thought of Castiel biting him, but he didn’t break the skin. Castiel kissed the placed his teeth had been and stroked a finger across Dean’s scent glands, resting their foreheads together.

“I want to kiss you.” His breath ghosted over Dean’s lips. “And then I want to finish kicking your ass.”

Dean laughed and pressed his mouth to Castiel’s. The kiss was off-center. Castiel captured Dean’s face in his hands and his thumbs traced gentle paths across Dean’s cheekbones, along his jaw, angling Dean’s mouth down for a better fit. Dizzily, Dean kissed him back without a care. Castiel’s scent was fresh and clean, like an early April storm, overtaking even the sharp odor of the surrounding pine trees. Perhaps _no scent blocking_ could be a new island rule.

The other couple had left by the time they emerged from the woods and another had taken their place. “Lost my ball,” Dean claimed, holding it up as proof. They smiled knowingly but said nothing.

Newly invigorated, Dean’s game improved, and the next time he glimpsed a sliver of bare skin at Castiel’s waist, he accepted it as a promise of what was to come. He finished three strokes above par and was happy to declare Cas the winner and walk within the curve of his arm when they returned the clubs.

 

* * *

 

Castiel kissed him back in the car, and again in the driveway and just inside the front door. He laid Dean on the couch and kissed every inch of him not covered by his clothes, which he removed, piece by piece, until Dean was nude.

“Dean,” Castiel whispered against his stomach. “What may I do?”

“Anything,” Dean panted, buzzing under his skin everywhere they connected. “Anything you want. Just touch me.”

“How? What do you like?”

“Why aren’t you naked?”

Dean pulled at Castiel’s clothes. Castiel shed them on the floor and lay on top of him. He was a heavy, perfect weight, anchoring them deep in the cushions. Dean couldn’t believe he was allowed to do this, to hold Castiel, to scent him freely, to run his hands down his flanks and over the swell of his ass. Castiel was hard against his stomach. Dean gently kneaded his ass and trailed one hand fully between Castiel’s legs, daring to brush gently through the folds of skin hidden behind his scrotum.

“Is this … can I?” he asked and Castiel nodded into his neck, groaning when Dean pressed a fingertip inside and shivered at the slick heat.

“Don’t be shy,” Castiel growled. “I’ve been thinking about you fucking me for the last hour.”

“Bedroom,” Dean said and yelped when Castiel scooped him up and carried him there. He deposited Dean on his back and dropped to the floor on his knees beside the bed. “Cas, what’re you—”

Castiel’s mouth enveloped him, something an ex had done for him in college, but it hadn’t felt like this. Castiel worshipped Dean with his tongue. Dean whined and balled his hands into the sheet when Castiel pulled off with a pop, only to consume him again a second later, angling his head side to side, and moving his tongue in a spiral.

“This is going to be over really fast if you keep that up,” Dean warned with a gentle touch to the top of Castiel’s head. He was relieved and disappointed when Castiel stopped. Grinning, Castiel kissed Dean’s inner thighs and the soft curve of his stomach beneath his navel.

“Can I tell you something?”

“I want us to tell each other everything,” Dean panted.

“Every time you wear that red tie to work, I think about you sucking me off on the conference table.” Castiel began a steady, slow pulling motion with his hand. “But the yellow one. When you wear that one, something changes. I don’t know how to explain it, but when I see you in that color, I want to do things to you. When you opened the door in that apron ...”

“Aren’t I …” Dean gulped, rutting helplessly into Castiel’s fist. “Shouldn’t I be the one saying that stuff to you?”

“Maybe,” Castiel said. He breathed deeply against Dean’s skin, grazing his teeth along the crease where his thigh met his torso. “But I think you like it. In fact, I think you _love_ it.”

“You … you don’t mind?”

“Dean, if I wanted an oppressive alpha, I could’ve mated the one my mother would’ve chosen for me. Condoms?”

“Top drawer.”

Castiel rolled one onto him, a possessive gleam in his eye, and asked, “How do you want me?”

“Um. I usually … ” Dean sat up, prepared to reverse their positions into something traditional, roll Castiel onto his stomach, but Castiel stilled him with a touch to his shoulder.

“How do you _want me_?”

Biting his lip, Dean lay back down and patted his thighs, thrilled when Castiel straddled him without question. He almost came when Castiel sank down with a satisfied groan. The pressure, the heat of his body, was exquisite. Dean held onto Castiel’s hips, fighting against the need to thrust up until he knew Castiel was comfortable, but Castiel leaned forward, steadying himself with an arm beside Dean’s head, and kissed away his urgency.

“I can’t believe we’re finally doing this,” Castiel whispered.

Dean put his arms around Castiel’s back to draw him down. Face to face, Castiel rocked slowly in his lap. His eyes were half lidded, his arousal potent, like a thunderstorm. Dean clutched him, tasting salt from his skin, and panted Castiel's name against his cheek.

He was beautiful like this, a flush high on his cheekbones, hair tangled by Dean’s hands. It stuck up in the front where he’d pushed it back from Castiel’s forehead. Dean kissed him with more tenderness than he’d ever shown anyone and sobbed when he finally came.

“I love you,” he cried. “I love you. I love you.”

Castiel followed but didn’t speak, just held Dean close as his body convulsed around him.

They kissed for ages after, until the sunlight faded, until Dean’s lips were numb and he shook for want of food. He cooked burgers (beef for himself, meatless for Cas), wearing only the apron, which he wore to keep the grease from burning his bare skin, and a pair of black lace briefs Castiel had held out on a fingertip. The burgers came out well-done, a fair trade-off for kitchen blowjobs.

They ate and showered and took the ice cream back to bed. Castiel fed him every other spoonful until the container was empty, occasionally stealing two bites in a row for himself and laughing when Dean playfully sulked. The pistachio flavor was light and sweet. Dean liked the way it tasted afterwards in Castiel’s mouth.

Castiel walked the container to the kitchen and switched off the lights on his way back to bed. He pulled the covers up over both of them and arranged them so Dean lay in the circle of his arms, head pillowed on Castiel’s chest. Dean stared, unfocused, into the dark. He trailed his fingers along Castiel’s collarbone, half afraid he might wake up to find the day had been a dream.

“Can I ask you something personal?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“What does it feel like?”

“What’s what feel like?”

“Getting … you know. What we just did.”

“Getting fucked?” Castiel laughed against Dean’s hair. “Well, it was strange the first time. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it’s invasive. I haven’t done it a lot. To be honest, I prefer fucking people.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Why?”

Dean frowned, turning his face away. “Just wondering,” he mumbled.

Castiel was quiet for a minute, rubbing a hand up and down Dean’s spine. He stilled it on his lower back, resting his knuckles against it. “It feels good with the right person. You.”

Dean swallowed, his cheeks on fire, but he nodded into the pillow. Chuckling, Castiel licked the crest of his ear.

“You know, alphas have enlarged prostates. When you decide you want to experiment with that, you let me know.”

Groaning, Dean threw a playful punch into Castiel’s ribs. “Not tonight.”

Castiel only laughed and lifted his head to kiss Dean’s shoulder.

“What _do_ you want?” he asked. “If you could have anything right now, what would it be?”

“I’m fine. In fact, I’m great. I could sleep for a day.”

“You shouldn’t lie to me.” Castiel grinned against his neck. “I can smell when you’re lying.”

Dean probably shouldn’t push his luck, lest the universe deign him greedy, but he was punch-drunk on Castiel’s scent, from the gentle scratch of lace bunched around his ankle, and blurted his most private fantasy. “I want you to eat me out.”

Instead of balking at the request, Castiel rolled on top and kissed Dean with his eyes wide.

“You want my tongue in your ass?” he growled and Dean, too humiliated to speak, gave a jerky nod. “Because I would love to taste you.”

Dean moaned into Castiel’s mouth.

The first touch of his tongue was warm and slippery—not quite what Dean had expected, but pleasant. Despite his initial pleasure, he clenched around it and squirmed away, feeling self-conscious even though they’d just showered. But Castiel shushed him. He gently kneaded Dean’s thighs, coaxing him to lift his hips to accommodate a pillow.

“I want you to relax,” Castiel said. “Open your legs more but don’t touch yourself.”

Though his cheeks were on fire, Dean obeyed. Castiel grinned from his obscene position, locking eyes with Dean down the plane of his stomach. With his tongue, he made a long lap to the base of Dean’s cock and winked.

“You like that?” he asked.

Dean balled his fists into the sheets and nodded yes, he did, he _really did_.

“Has anyone ever done this for you before?”

He lolled his head side to side in response.

“Their loss. Your ass is divine.” Castiel licked and slurped with ardor and affection, until Dean was loose and shaking.

If they mated, would it be like this all the time? Since they were now technically equals at the office, there wasn’t anything in the employee handbook prohibiting them from working together, even as a mated pair. Castiel could walk into the office every day with Dean’s bite on his neck and everyone would know he was off limits. Dean could tear the throat from anyone who spoke down to him and it would be perfectly legal. And although it wasn’t commonly done, maybe Castiel would bite Dean in return, so he’d have a scar of his own.

“Ask me again when you’re not pre-orgasmic,” Castiel said, but Dean didn’t have time to be mortified that he’d apparently babbled his desires _out loud,_ because Castiel wriggled a finger inside of him.

Dean had touched himself this way a few times and owned a slim toy he used in utter secrecy, but the sensation of Castiel’s finger stroking him was otherworldly. He’d coated it in something—and when Castiel withdrew and Dean saw him snake his hand between his own legs, he knew Castiel had used his slick. Was it possible Dean had died at an indeterminate point and this was the afterlife? Castiel brushed a fingertip over Dean’s prostate and he lit up like fireworks over Lake Erie on the fourth of July, coming hard in Castiel’s mouth.

The ability to knot outside of rut was a romance movie cliche that rarely happened in real life, but when Dean came to a few seconds later, his was partially swollen in Castiel’s fist. If he hadn’t been convinced of Dean’s affection for him, there could be no doubt of it now. He milked Dean’s knot with his hand until he came a second time and Dean couldn’t help but imagine being locked inside of him, their bodies momentarily inseparable. Castiel’s eyes were half-lidded, his lips parted and breath coming hard—he must be thinking about it too.

His inner thighs were shiny with slick. Dean laid him back and patiently licked them clean, chasing the slick to its source and fucked Castiel with his tongue for a few minutes, until he begged for Dean’s mouth. Though he lacked experience, Dean went down on him with enthusiasm, replacing his tongue with two fingers, satisfied he was doing a good job when Castiel threaded his fingers in Dean’s hair and began to piston his hips.

Dean had never enjoyed sex so much. He got a rush from every groan, every spasm around his fingers, the way Castiel grunted his name and arched off of the mattress. When he made Castiel come for the third time that day, Dean felt such a surge of pride that he fit himself along Castiel’s back and kissed his shoulders repeatedly. Neither of them spoke for a while, but Castiel broke the silence.

“Did you mean what you said? About mating?” he asked, hesitation in his voice. Dean wished he could maul the beta who had hurt him years ago, but what he could do was be honest. He kissed the back of Castiel’s neck.

“Cas, when you told me about what you did during your heat, I thought I was going to throw up. I was so jealous at the thought of someone else touching you.”

Castiel stilled.

“I spent last week in my bedroom with a fake knot,” he whispered. “Gabriel almost had to drive me to the hospital for dehydration.”

Dean rolled Castiel onto his back to look at him. “Why did you let me think you’d been with someone else?”

“Self preservation?” Castiel buried his face in Dean’s neck. “I haven’t been with anyone since I met you. The idea makes me sick.”

“I haven’t either,” Dean confessed, embarrassed by how relieved he felt. “You’re the only person I think about.”

“I’ve wanted you for so long, Dean—” Castiel’s voice broke.

“Shh.” Dean stroked his hair. “You have me, okay? You’ve always had me.”

“I was so afraid you’d find someone else and I’d have to let you go.”

“There’s never gonna be anyone else for me. Never,” Dean promised. “I want you, Cas. I want every part of you, exactly as you are. Let me take care of you. You could’ve _called me_ last week. I would’ve brought anything you needed.”

“Gabe tried to make me eat, but I was miserable. I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“I’ve heard it’s … I’ve heard it can be _better_ with someone you care for.”

“I’ve heard that too.”

“I want to be there for you next time,” Dean said. “If you’ll let me.”

Castiel held him tightly and kissed Dean’s hair. After a while he said, “It’ll be closer to Christmas.”

“What do you think Zach’ll do when we’re both out for a week?” Dean rolled to press himself against Castiel’s chest and thread their hands together. He liked the way their naked bodies felt everywhere they touched.

“Try to get me fired,” Castiel said honestly.

“I’ll threaten to walk.” Dean kissed him hard. “He can’t afford to lose both of us, and he definitely can’t afford us going over to a competitor. I didn’t sign a non-compete. Did you?”

“No.”

“We can come up here for the week, if you want. Have some privacy.”

“Gabriel would appreciate that,” Castiel said through a sigh. “Sam was curious why I wouldn’t come out of my room.”

“I’ll talk to HR when we get back,” Dean said. “Benny takes time off for his wife. Come December, we’ll camp out up here and I’ll make all your favorite things. I’ll even find that quinoa stuff you like.”

“It’s a complete protein,” Castiel defended. He cleared his throat. “HR won’t guarantee you time off unless it’s your mate in heat. It’s state law.”

“Is that …” Dean swallowed. “Is that something you want?”

It was a long time before Castiel answered. “I need to think about it.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not saying no,” he stressed, “but I’ve been independent for over half of my life and it’s overwhelming to think about being … _claimed_.” There was a distinct note of fear in his voice and distress in his scent.

“I don’t want to own you or control you, Cas.”

“But you could, and that’s still the mindset of a lot of people in the world.”

“Then we’ll wait,” Dean said. “I’ve always liked the idea of an engagement.”

Castiel smiled gently. “Would you agree to come live with us?”

“You and your brother?”

“I know you love your apartment, but if we’re really going to do this, I want us to be together as much as possible, and I don’t want to leave Gabe.”

“If you think I’m going to spend a night without you after this, you’re crazy.”

“You’ll hate the commute,” Castiel murmured.

“Probably,” Dean agreed, nuzzling into Castiel’s chest. “But Cas, you’ve gotta promise me you’ll kick the pills. I don’t mean your suppressants. I’ll support you however I can.”

“I know. I will. I want to—as long as you agree to no more master cleanses. You’re fucking gorgeous the way you are.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dean usually took the last Sunday ferry so he could eke as much time out of the cabin as he could, but after a leisurely breakfast of cinnamon toast in bed and a handsy stroll along the beach, they packed up both cars and headed back to the mainland. Castiel followed Dean to his apartment to gather the necessities for the week: five days’ worth of clothing, his razor, an extra pair of shoes. The rest seemed suddenly trivial. He’d stop by mid-week for anything he forgot.

“I hope you like the house,” Castiel said. “The furniture isn’t as nice as yours, and the house needs work, but it’s going to be beautiful when it’s done.”

“Would any of this fit?” Dean surveyed his leather couch, the black Barcelona chairs on either side of the fireplace, replica Eames chairs around his dining table. The Ascoso espresso machine had been a gift to himself when he’d put in ten years at Sandover—he’d like to keep it. And he’d hardly touched his cookware, preferring takeout after a long workday. It was practically brand new.

“I didn’t want to presume you’d sell right away.”

“It’d be nice to have a place in the city, but I’ll be happy to have one less mortgage.” Dean put a hand on the floor-to-ceiling window. He _would_ miss the water view, but now he’d have an excuse to use the cabin more often.

Castiel hooked his chin over Dean’s shoulder. “I have a lot of good memories of you here.”

“A sale won't complete for a couple months. We should come back before then.” Castiel’s arms tightened around him like a vow. “Anyway, we don’t have to figure out the details today. Let’s go. I want to meet your brother.”

 

* * *

 

Gabriel was absolutely nothing like Castiel and everything Dean had expected. He met them in the driveway. Short and candy scented, with a distinctive nose and hazel eyes narrowed in judgment, he took to Dean instantly. Although Dean had heard next to nothing about him over the three years of Castiel’s friendship, Gabriel had obviously gotten an earful about Dean. He shook his hand with vigor and exclaimed “It’s about time!” when Castiel explained that Dean was moving in with them.

“No mating bite, though,” Gabriel observed with a frown, taking Castiel’s chin in his hand.

“Not yet,” Castiel said, flushing.

“You’d better make an honest man out of Dean, Castiel,” Gabriel clucked. “What would mother say?”

The house was two stories tall, tan clapboard with black shutters, and a small back yard. The inside was bright and spare, with hardwood floors running room to room where they’d pulled up the carpeting. The kitchen was cramped and had melamine cabinetry, not new by any standards, but in good condition.

“Sexy, huh? Sure you’re ready to give up your stainless steel countertops?” Castiel asked tentatively.

“I think …” Dean turned in his arms to kiss him, “... that my espresso machine would look _really good_ on the counter.”

Castiel grinned and squeezed Dean’s ass. “You know what else would look good on the counter?”

“In case you lovebirds forgot,” Gabriel said. “I’m right here.”

Dean and Castiel dissolved into a laughing fit.

Samandriel was upstairs napping. A bright and curious toddler, he asked about their visitor as soon as he woke, pointing to Dean with the hand not scrubbing his eyes and demanding, “Who that?”

“That’s your Uncle Dean-o, squirt,” Gabriel said, lifting him from his bed and smoothing the dinosaur quilt back in place. “Your Uncle Cas finally pulled his head out of the sand.”

“Actually, that’s a misconception,” Castiel began to explain. “Ostriches don’t–” but Gabriel cut him off.

“Why don’t you show your man the bedroom? He’s raring to go, and he’ll stink up the place if you don’t do something about it.” He carried Samandriel on his hip down the stairs. “Dinner’s in an hour. You kids enjoy yourselves, but keep the screaming to a minimum. Virgin ears.”

“Wow,” Dean said when it was just the two of them in the upstairs hallway.

“Yeah, he’s something. But he’s a good dad. He spoils Sam rotten.”

“Never really thought about having kids,” Dean mused.

“I’d like them one day.” Gesturing over his shoulder, Castiel smiled shyly and said, “Our room’s this one.”

Their bedroom had hideous green carpet and honey-stained trim around the windows and doors, but the bathroom counter was gray stone, with a newer white vanity, which was something. The bed, pushed against the longest wall in place of a headboard, offered two sagging pillows and a blue duvet. But since sleeping in this room meant sleeping with Castiel every night, presumably for the rest of his life, Dean didn’t bat an eye at the decor. A long weekend and a trip to Pottery Barn would easily bring it up to date. Mom would be thrilled if Dean asked her to fly out and help, although Gabriel might have trouble getting Sam back once she got her hands on him.

They unpacked and rested together for a half hour, Dean’s head on Castiel’s chest. He listened to his heart, to the rush of air into his lungs. The whole room smelled like him, but especially the bed. Every hint of stress melted away and Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever been so happy in his life.

“What should we do tomorrow?” he asked. “Do we keep this quiet?”

“I don’t want to hide it,” Castiel said. “But I’d rather it not be public knowledge until the restructuring is formal and I have a new title on my door. Once that happens, I’ll put framed pictures of you all over my office.”

“And the other thing?”

“It’s none of their business. As far as they’re concerned, we’re an alpha couple. That’s not unheard of, even if it is rare.”

“Okay,” Dean said.

“I’d like to come out,” Castiel sighed. “I’ll have to, if I … if you and I start a family. But I want it to be on my own terms. Let me make myself indispensable first.”

Dean smiled. “You’re doing a pretty decent job of that so far.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, they decided to take separate cars to the office until the promotion was official. It would mean unnecessary miles on the Prius for a couple weeks, but it’s what Castiel wanted, so Dean was content to oblige.

He’d thought it might be frustrating, even difficult, to work in Castiel’s proximity now that they were together, but whenever he felt antsy during that first week, the urgency that had chased him for three years was tempered by a wink from Castiel and the promise of “later,” whispered in Dean’s ear as they passed one another in the hallway, or met over the coffee pot, or parted in the garage at the beginning of each workday.

To their surprise, Meg Masters from the human resources department was livid when she received Castiel’s complaint about Bart and Raphael’s behavior. She summoned both Dean and Castiel for a meeting as soon as she’d reviewed it.

Meg looked at Castiel appreciatively across her desk, which was covered in neat stacks of paper, labeled with multi-colored post-its. Dean sat next to Castiel in solidarity but kept respectfully quiet while he explained what had happened in the conference room.

“I’ve heard rumors about Bartholomew for years,” she said, letting the typed complaint droop in her grasp. “You’re the first person with the guts to file something against him. The others were too afraid of retaliation, even though they would’ve been protected by state and federal law.”

“So they can’t do anything to Castiel for this?” Dean asked, leaning forward.

“No,” Meg said. Dean sighed in relief.

“And you’ll follow up on it?” Castiel’s eyes widened hopefully.

“I’ll do what I can,” Meg said. “I want to bring Ms. Bradbury into the conversation. Unfortunately, with that older generation, they’re steeped in a bigoted way of thinking. Of course, I’m sure Sandover would like to avoid dealing with the EEOC,” she shifted her gaze to Dean, “especially since you’re trying to secure a contract with the transit authority. The negative publicity wouldn’t bode well.”

“I’d prefer we deal with this internally, if possible. I don’t want to have to run damage control if it’s not necessary,” Dean said. Castiel gave a short, resigned nod and made a fist against his thigh. Feeling that he’d betrayed him by implying he valued the company more than human rights, Dean took a breath and added, “But if Charlie wants to pursue this, I’m going to support her. I’ll go on record about what I heard.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Meg said. “The threat of you taking this public could be enough for the board to take action. We’ll see what happens. Is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen in the meantime?”

Dean glanced to Castiel and raised his eyebrows in silent question. Castiel shrugged but nodded.

“I need to request vacation time,” Dean said.

Meg took out a black binder. “What month?”

“December,” Dean said. “I’m not sure of the exact dates yet.”

“His vacation will be the same as mine,” Castiel spoke up and Meg’s smile turned sly.

“Why, Clarence. Congratulations. I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

“It’s not …” Dean pulled self-consciously on his tie. “We’re not mated. Yet.”

“State law grants leave to mated couples only, but Sandover recognizes scent bonds,” Meg said. “I’ll pencil you in, and you’ll call me when you have more information.”

Dean blinked but thanked Meg for her assistance and held the door for Castiel, relishing in the clandestine brush of their hands as he passed. Instead of walking toward the elevators, Castiel led him into an unused office located off of the hallway outside HR. He locked it and pressed up against Dean.

“You okay?” Dean slid his hands beneath Castiel’s jacket and ran them over the contours of his back. He tucked his face against Castiel’s neck and breathed.

“I’m wonderful,” Castiel said against his hair. “Thank you for what you said in there.”

“Course.”

“I mean it, Dean. I’m grateful.” He dipped his head to graze his teeth along the side of Dean’s throat. “Fuck, you smell _good_. It’s a shame I can’t rip your clothes off right now.”

Dean held onto Castiel’s hips. He worked a knee between his thighs and encouraged Cas to rub against him. Dean had worn silk boxers and felt Castiel’s body respond through his wool trousers as they ground their hips together, smelled the heady tang of ozone that heralded arousal.

“We could swing by my place after work,” Dean whispered. “I was going to stop by anyway and pick up a few things. We can get a pizza for old time’s sake.”

“Only if you promise to eat it naked,” Castiel said. He nipped at the skin beneath Dean’s ear.

“Deal,” Dean said. “Do you think it’s true? What Meg said about a scent bond?”

“It would explain why we’re so attuned to each other, why you can smell me through my blockers.”

“When do you think it happened?”

“Probably when we met. I didn’t want to let go of your hand.” Castiel kissed him soundly. “I don’t want to stop, but I don’t have another pair of pants at the office, and I’m about to soak through these. Rain check?”

Dean nosed at Castiel’s neck, laving the spot where he’d sink his teeth, when it came time, when Castiel said yes. He suckled until Castiel gently pushed him away.

“We should go.”

Dean shivered with disappointment but nodded. Sighing, Castiel traced his index finger down the length of Dean’s yellow tie, orbiting his finger around the sterling pin.

“I adore this color on you,” he murmured.

He loosened the tie and unbuttoned Dean’s shirt to expose his neck and chest, shooing away Dean’s hands when he tried to undress Castiel in kind. He dipped his head and bit Dean on the meat of his shoulder, hard enough he’d feel the impression of Castiel’s teeth for the rest of the day. Dean groaned, angling his mouth toward Castiel’s, but he’d already stepped away to fix his clothes.

“What was that for?” Dean asked, dazzled by the ache, the way it throbbed in time with his heart. He adjusted his tie and smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt.

“You needed it.” Castiel kissed Dean a final time, long and deep. “See you at five.”

“I’ll be there.”

With a wink, Castiel slipped into the hallway, trailing the musty aroma of damp earth, of rain, that Dean followed willingly.

 

 

 

 

_art by[MyColour](http://somuchcolour.tumblr.com/%22)_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I started this a year ago and then sat on it, so I am grateful I got an excuse to finish and share it. 
> 
> This wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for [a link I clicked](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1517786/chapters/3208667) in coffee-deficient delirium early on a Saturday last year, so I have to thank Sandra for recommending The Client ‘verse, the first a/b/o fic I ever read. And I also have to thank diminuel, whose a/b/o & mpreg [rec lists](http://diminuel.tumblr.com/tagged/fic+rec) introduced me to several of my favorite stories. I also want to acknowledge the series [Ridiculous Untitled Cuddling Fluff](http://archiveofourown.org/series/57529), which is the reason I love the Dean Smith/endverse Castiel pairing. 
> 
> The A/B/O science referenced in this fic is largely derived from [A/B/O: Adventures in Fake Science](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4299357/chapters/9803262) by Hells Bartender. 
> 
> [Art masterpost](http://somuchcolour.tumblr.com/post/149796927929/deancas-tropefest-rain-by-museaway-mature) | [Reference images](https://www.pinterest.com/museaway/spn-rain/) | [Tumblr masterpost](http://deancastropefest.tumblr.com/post/149799309532/rain-museaway-mycolour)
> 
> If you're on twitter, please [come say hi](https://twitter.com/museawayfic)!


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